


Regarding the Body Swapping Debacle

by BleedingTypewriter



Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [14]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in someone else's body, Overstimulation, Quarantine, body swapping, body switching, teammates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:49:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: Navigating cyclical body swapping episodes during a two-week quarantine somehow manages to be even more complicated than Keith anticipates.Part of a series of edited/updated threads from Twitter.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744681
Comments: 8
Kudos: 236





	Regarding the Body Swapping Debacle

**Author's Note:**

> "Regarding Twitter" is a series of my favourite threads updated, lightly edited, and tagged. All original versions are available on my account [here.](https://twitter.com/BleedingType/status/1199399029395709952) Length and tone varies as Twitter is where I tend to play and explore.

The quarantine is no one’s fault, really. Voltron responds to an urgent call for help and they don’t realize until it’s too late that the ensuing frantic beacons from the planet are attempts to get them to retreat, not approach faster. So they’re exposed to an alien virus and forced into isolation chambers while Coran scrubs the castle ship from top to bottom for fourteen quintants. It’s a necessary evil, but a blameless one.

The _body-switching_ , however...that’s _all_ Lance.

He’s offered a little crystal by one of the aliens—a little “protection charm”—and _of course_ he takes it and _of course_ it’s still in his pocket when they go in for scanning and decontamination and _of course_ it reacts to the castle ship system and…

Look, long story short, Keith wakes up in a room he can’t leave in a body that isn’t his and he’s so mad about it he can’t even look in a mirror for the first four hours lest he punch the dark, reckless, blue-eyed face staring back at him.

It gives him whiplash when he goes from curled in Lance’s bed—in Lance’s _body_ —to splayed out on his own floor, back in a body he recognizes but positioned in a foreign starfish.

So it’s cyclical. They switch bodies in and switch back. Great.

A day later, it becomes obvious that it’s random, too. A few minutes here, a few _hours_ there.

_Great_.

Between Pidge and Coran, they figure it out, which is good, except the only solution is to run back through the scanner and it’s too much of a risk to leave isolation before quarantine is up, so...

“It’s not that bad, right?” Lance tries on the comms. “Just two weeks...”

Allura sighs, but it’s with a deep heaving shoulder shrug, and her face stays drawn and patient—it’s Shiro in there, at the moment, and Keith isn’t sure yet if he finds his brother’s discomfort in Allura’s more compact body funny. “It’s okay, Lance, you didn’t know.”

“Which is why you _shouldn't have done it_ ,” Keith grumbles, but Shiro—or Allura, technically, and okay, it’s _definitely_ funny to see Shiro’s body trying to perch itself regally on screen like that—chides him with a sharp, “Not helpful, Keith.”

Pidge and Hunk are still the right way around for now, though Pidge still looks somewhat nauseous (the feeling of being ravenously hungry, then stuffed, then back in her usual body after Hunk’s been eating in it is, apparently, starting to weigh on her).

“It’s _not that bad_ ,” Lance insists weakly, “It’ll be like a game. Body Jumpers. We can patent it and make a fortune.” Only Hunk and Shiro-in-Allura laugh with him, and even then it’s a thin, unconvincing sound.

It’s not like a game.

It’s not like a game at _all_.

The isolation Keith can handle. He’s a born desert-dweller, he’s _used_ to long silences and few distractions.

Lance, clearly, is not.

The shifts come with barely a warning tingle beforehand, so Keith often has seconds to prepare for whatever nonsense Lance is up to.

He goes from sitting in bed to standing on his hands with his legs stretched out in a ludicrous split. The change is so abrupt that he takes an immediate spill and gets a terse message from Lance later on about not bruising the merchandise. (Keith’s response is less than pleased.)

One second he’s sharpening his dagger, back against the door, humming softly. The next he’s wincing at two white thumbs and blinking at a screen with a crick in his neck and a completely numb ass. (Lance moans for _days_ about how Keith had lost him that video game level.)

It’s almost worse when it’s the other way around—when it’s early, early morning and Keith is awake and training and then suddenly in a body that’s still asleep. It’s jarring. He claws at the face mask and the headphones and the whole kit and kaboodle the first time it happens, disoriented. (Lance doesn’t mention it. Keith suspects it’s worse for him, going from mid-dream to mid-sit up. He doesn’t bring up the bruise on his skull and Lance doesn’t bring up the product under his nails and it almost feels like progress.)

The worst part, though, is kind of on Keith.

Because he’s used to isolation and Lance isn’t, but that means that he’s used to privacy, and his sense of shame is perhaps a bit underdeveloped.

He doesn’t even really think about it when a buzz starts up in his gut post-training one afternoon and his dick gets hard against his thigh. He doesn’t think about Lance. He doesn’t think about anything aside from the logistics: should he get off in the shower or before? He’s been working his legs, so they’re a bit wobbly, but he doesn’t want to get his sheets wet with workout sweat. He settles for a yoga mat; tugs himself out with no finesse. He’s used to being able to do this; to work off the extra adrenaline however he pleases. It’s habitual, almost; another way he’s found to keep his bursts of restlessness within his own control. It doesn’t even _occur_ to him that it’s risky until he feels the warning tingle and–

If slamming from wakefulness into deep sleep is a trip, slamming from mid-jerk off to mid-face mask is a whole fucking relocation. It’s a pack your shit and get outta dodge kind of trip. It’s a goddamn _evacuation_. It’s the most exquisite kind of edging: such an intense, sudden drop from near-orgasm to _nothing_ that Keith-in-Lance drops the tube of whatever-the-fuck is half-smeared over Lance’s face and outright _whines_.

That’s a bad move, it turns out, because Lance had been looking right into his own reflection, so Keith watches his face crumple into instantaneous desperation. Even half-covered with green gunk, it’s _hot_.

(It’s not. It’s weird. That’s _his_ expression on _Lance’s_ face. It’s weird, it’s weird, it’s _so_ fucking weird, but _god_ , he’s never _seen_ Lance’s face like this and it’s a sick combination of power and fantasy to watch it twist in every way that turns Keith on; to _make it_ twist in every way that turns Keith on.)

He fumbles Lance’s cock out without thinking about it; tears open what he realizes absently is a garish lion robe and sighs with relief at the lack of underwear he finds and sags back against the bathroom wall even though it makes some of Lance’s hair stick to his face gunk. God, fuck, Lance is still soft, but Keith is still keyed up, so his wrist stutters through the first few motions, caught between over- and under-stimulation. Lance is longer than he is; more sensitive at the head so the friction of his foreskin is nearly too much.

_Everything_ is nearly too much. Lance feels _so much_ all the time, but his body’s cranked it to eleven now. Keith twists away from his own attempt to twist at a nipple the way he likes in his own body; has to come back softer and slower and more careful. 

He has to be so much more careful about everything that it gives him dangerous time to think. In his own body he can go fast enough to avoid that, but in Lance’s that brand of touch is too painful; he has to slow down, has to _experiment_. And that gives him time to _watch_.

He watches Lance’s abs twitch whenever he gets too enthusiastic. It sends spikes into his gut that almost feel like anxiety, and it almost makes the discomfort worth it when he’s forced to reign himself in and watch Lance’s body relax; watch it roll and loll and indulge.

Keith usually focuses on the flick of his wrist, but the muscles in Lance’s forearms strain easier. His hips thrust like it’s second nature. The body Keith’s in is clearly used to it—shudders with automatic pleasure—but Keith isn’t, so it feels foreign and intense. But the intensity forces him toward orgasm just that much faster and Lance’s body protests and that anxiety-not-anxiety, pain-not-pain goes shooting through him and Keith begrudgingly slows his thrusts. 

He watches Lance’s hands shake with his own frustration. He watches Lance’s cock slide sluggish and wet and so, _so_ hard through that shaky grip. Fuck, is it always like this for Lance? Like riding full speed toward a cliff across a plateau so long the adrenaline almost—but not quite, _never_ quite—kills the urge to take the plunge? Does he get frustrated, too? Would he be making the same tight expression Keith is forcing onto his face, caught between too much and too little, loving-hating- _loving_ the exquisite lockstep? 

Or has he learned to push through it? Would he be frantic where Keith has to pull back? Would he force those long, shaking fingers over his cock and let it hurt until the hurt itself becomes pleasure? Does Lance like the _too much_ Keith can only toe the line of in this new body?

He approaches Lance’s orgasm so slowly he doesn’t register, at first, when it hits. Everything gets more intense little by aching little, and he’s watching so closely that he notices the spasm of Lance’s cock in the mirror but doesn’t feel it. He watches the way Lance’s face goes slack with dumb pleasure; sees the contrast between the dark skin of his stomach and the white come that sticks to it; hears Lance’s low, husky moan.

And then he’s _coming_ , and he knows nothing.

He notices nothing; watches nothing; sees, hears, _is_ nothing.

It’s an almost, almost, almost, almostalmostalmost—here-fucking- _gone_ kind of feeling. He’s been approaching the edge for so _long_ and in an instant it’s miles behind him and he’s fucking _in it_. There’s no transition. He thrusting slow and hard into Lance’s hand and then he’s braced with those fingers curled tight around the base. He’s stiff and tense and breathing in huffs, then he’s trembling from core to extremity, unable to breathe without vocalizing.

It’s ridiculous. Lance’s orgasms are _ridiculous_ (or maybe that’s just when they’re combined with Keith’s). 

“Oh my _god_ ,” he groans, and regrets it almost immediately, because it’s in Lance’s winded, post-orgasmic, hazy voice.

And he’s coming down now, so that’s…

God, it had been so _hot_ before, but now, with cold come cooling on his stomach and face mask smeared over his chest and legs he’s not sure are going to keep him upright much longer, it’s not so much _hot_ as _mortifying_. Embarrassment and guilt and fear slide into him smooth and lukewarm, so for a second Keith just stands there; just watches Lance’s face twist with his panic as his body stays leaning prone and useless against the wall, flagging dick in his hand.

And then the tingle starts.

“Fuck, _no_ ,” Keith says in Lance’s voice, and manages to let go of his cock and haphazardly swipe at the green muck on one nipple, and then he’s back in his own body.

At first he thinks the all-over throb he feels is the humiliation.

And then he notices his chest’s harsh heaving; notices the way he’s sweating and tingling. When the throb hits again he notices it’s originating from his cock, which is in his hand.

He groans (it’s almost weird hearing it in his own voice again). He hesitates; hisses as he releases his dick and finally clocks the somewhat cold, sticky mess on his stomach.

He’s throbbing; aching. But he’s _hard_ , as if Lance had _just_ been...

But he’d been so _close_ before the switch; had clearly finished soon thereafter

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

Had Lance slammed into Keith’s orgasm and then _sought out another one_?

Had Keith-in-Lance been onto something? Is Lance so used to overstimulation that he’d gone after it in Keith’s body?

Or had this been his first time? Had the switch been such a headlong leap into arousal that the suddenness of the strange orgasm had turned him on enough to need to get off about it _right then_?

It stings something fierce to grab his cock again; chafes as he starts to stroke mercilessly. It hurts. It hurts _so much_ , _fuck_ is this what Lance had been feeling? He must have been, must have been _excited_ about it. Or maybe he’d been frustrated at the lack of sensitivity in Keith’s skin. Maybe he’d wanted it to hurt _more_ , like it would in his own body.

Keith tightens his grip; clenches his teeth; presses down hard where Lance has already left the fingers of his other hand pressed behind his balls. The pain increases, but so does the pleasure. So do the fever dreams:

Lance in his body.

Lance doing _this_ to his body.

Lance getting off on Keith’s orgasm.

Lance forcing his orgasm, _this_ orgasm, this perfectly detailed, over-sensitive thing, into Keith...

When he comes for the second time in as many minutes—in as many _bodies_ , holy fuck—it’s with a ragged sigh. His cock twitches weakly, offers almost nothing, but the sensation hits hard enough to take his breath. He shakes in hard bouts, shuddering and then going still, unsure whether it’s earth shattering in a good way or just a satisfying one.

He’s not sure how long he lies there. Long enough that, between the sweat and the come, he starts to shiver. Long enough to wonder what the _fuck_ in both general and _very_ specific terms. Long enough that the ring of his comm is startling in the silence.

Lance’s name on the call display is more startling still.

“Fuck,” Keith breathes, but answers all the same.

“So, uh,” Lance says, red-faced (angry? Embarrassed? Both?), “What...?”

Keith isn’t sure if he’s going for ‘...now?’ or ‘...the hell?’ but either way, he agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> This one might have legs...potentially to be continued some day!


End file.
